A Game of Hazard
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Ginger is left at home while the rest of the comrades are in the Terai. Naturally, an adventure comes his way. By HRH.


A Game of Hazard

Ginger paused outside Scotland Yard. He was tired and felt jaded, having worked late. He had spend all day trying to bring order to the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated and if he never saw another sheet of paper it would be too soon, he told himself. If he were honest, he admitted, he was feeling disgruntled that Biggles had ordered him to stay behind and mind the office while Bertie accompanied him to India to look for Algy. Surely they went back such a long way that he should have been the one in the second pilot's seat, but Biggles had been adamant. "Let's have no argument," he had said. Ginger knew him well enough to know that was the end of it.

He considered taking a taxi back to Mount Street, but the night was fine and he did not want to be indoors. What he needed was some fresh air and a chance to stretch his legs. He was not cut out for office work, he thought miserably, wondering how the search for Algy was progressing. With a sigh, he set off to walk home. He hesitated a moment, wondering which route to take. His intention was to cut through Green Park and use the back streets to reach the flat he occupied with the others, but he had several options to choose from before he reached the Park.

On a whim, he turned left and set off along Victoria Embankment, heading for the RAF memorial. There were still pedestrians about, but none of them paid any attention to him. As he approached Whitehall Steps he noticed a young woman by the parapet. It was her dark hair and sombre dress that drew his eye, evoking unexpected memories of Jeanette that he thrust away before they could take hold. She pushed her hair away from her face and he could see that she had been crying. Her attitude spoke of despair beyond endurance and some instinct made him quicken his pace. He reached her just as she appeared to make up her mind.

"Are you alright?" he asked anxiously.

The young woman started at the sound of his voice and almost lost her balance. He put out his hand to save her.

She looked at him and choked back a sob. "I can't even manage to end it all properly," she wailed.

Appalled, Ginger asked her why she wanted to, but she had dissolved in tears once more.

"Look," suggested Ginger uncomfortably, "why don't you come and have a cup of tea? There's a taxi stand not far from here. You might not feel so bad if you had something to eat and drink and talked it over." He judged her to be about twenty-five. Her black hair, parted in the middle, framed an oval face. Her eyes were red from weeping.

She regarded him suspiciously, but his frank, open face reassured her. She took her handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose noisily before nodding acquiescence.

"Good. My name's Hebblethwaite, by the way," he introduced himself, "but as that's such a mouthful, my friends call me Ginger." He held out his hand.

"Rhoda," she told him, slipping her hand into his. "Rhoda Williams." The slight Welsh accent he had noted became more pronounced as she relaxed.

"Come on then, Rhoda," encouraged Ginger. "I could do with a cuppa after a day at the office." She fell into step with him as he led her to one of the late-night kiosks that provided drinks for taxi drivers.

When he had handed her a large china mug of tea he drew her out of earshot of the cabbies grouped around the stand.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he invited, sipping the steaming brew.

Rhoda took a deep breath. "I don't know where to start," she told him, bewildered.

"Take your time," he reassured her gently. "Start at the beginning."

"I was supposed to be on my honeymoon now," she began, "only Dai was killed."

Ginger caught his breath. He knew how she felt. That explained why she was wearing black, he realised.

"What happened?" he wanted to know.

"He crashed. An aeroplane. He was testing it for the company he worked for," she told him between gulps of hot liquid.

Ginger frowned. "Dai Roberts?" he queried.

She looked at him open mouthed. "Did you know him?" she asked incredulously.

He shook his head, marvelling at the coincidence. One of the routine reports he had been reading that afternoon had dealt with the crash. "I recognised the name, that was all," he said. "I read about it."

"I didn't realise it was in the national papers," she said naively. "They wouldn't tell me anything other than that he'd lost control and crashed. They tried to say it was his fault," she said bitterly, "but Dai was a good pilot."

Ginger nodded encouragingly. The report had suggested pilot error. Extreme manoeuvres leading to loss of control when excessive stress caused the wing to fail. When he had read the report, Ginger had been surprised that the pilot had not ejected. The incident had happened over an open stretch of moorland. There was no risk of the aircraft crashing onto houses, no need for him to have stayed with his aeroplane. A tragic accident.

"I couldn't face life without him," Rhoda told Ginger frankly. "It all seemed so pointless. I couldn't stay back in Denbigh. We'd intended to honeymoon in London, so I came on my own to the hotel we'd booked. I don't know what I was thinking of. It just made everything worse …" her voice broke.

Ginger nodded sympathetically. "Grief makes people do strange things," he murmured.

Rhoda shook her head, bewildered. "I don't know why he didn't save himself," she said tearfully. "When I worried about these flights being dangerous Dai always told me there was no need to fret. He said he had a means of escape if anything went wrong."

"Sometimes even the safety equipment goes wrong," admitted Ginger. "It isn't foolproof."

"I wonder if that was why Dai had seemed so moody in the last couple of days before he died," she speculated. "I thought he might have been getting cold feet about us getting married, but he said it wasn't that. Perhaps he had a premonition something would go wrong."

Ginger felt a shiver run down his spine. He had good reason not to discount premonitions.

"Did he do or say anything suspicious?" he asked, thrusting the memory to the back of his mind.

"Suspicious?" she queried.

"I mean was there anything strange, different from normal, about his behaviour? Did he do anything that seemed out of character?" clarified Ginger.

Rhoda wrinkled her forehead, thinking back. "He seemed to be more on edge after he had a visitor - about three or four days before the accident," she recalled. "The man came to his house first, looking for him, but Dai was at the factory. I was measuring up for curtains," she said inconsequentially and paused while she pulled herself together.

Ginger waited patiently. He understood that reliving painful memories was hard.

"Every time I tried to ask Dai about what was worrying him," she continued, breathing deeply, "he changed the subject. We used to share everything," she said, her voice breaking. "It wasn't like him not to talk about what was troubling him."

"Did he talk about his work?" Ginger wanted to know.

"Not much," admitted Rhoda. "No details. Just when he was flying and if it was a new aeroplane."

"What do you plan to do now?" asked Ginger.

Rhoda dissolved in tears again. "I don't know," she snuffled.

"Suppose you go back to your hotel and get some sleep," suggested Ginger. "I'll have a look at the report into Dai's crash and let you know what I find," he found himself offering. "See why he couldn't get out in time. Would that make you feel better?"

Rhoda looked at him in surprise.

"I'm a policeman," smiled Ginger. "In the Special Air Police Department at Scotland Yard."

Rhoda's mouth dropped open. "You don't look …" she started to say then stopped. "…like a policeman," she finished, blushing slightly.

Ginger laughed. "That's what a lot of people say," he admitted, "but I assure you I am. Not looking like a policeman can come in handy sometimes."

She smiled hesitantly. "I suppose it does," she murmured.

"That's better," said Ginger encouragingly. "Where are you staying?"

She gave him the name of a hotel on Bedford Square, not far from the British Museum.

"It isn't far out of my way and I wanted some fresh air," he told her, "so I'll walk with you if you like."

She looked at him steadily. He was clearly older than she had first thought, but he had a deceptively boyish face and figure. An unruly lock of ginger hair straggled from beneath his hat. His clothes, she noticed, were quietly understated but good quality and his shoes were highly polished. Her mother had always insisted on the importance of polished shoes, Rhoda recalled. She decided she could trust him, then immediately laughed at herself. She had been determined to throw herself in the Thames half an hour ago. Why was she hesitating about letting this courteous young air policeman escort her back to her hotel?

"I'd be glad if you would," she accepted. "I don't know London all that well. It all seems so …" she paused, trying to put her feelings into words, "… huge and impersonal, somehow," she concluded.

He held out his arm and she took it shyly. As they walked, she told him about herself and Dai, about how they had met and their plans for the future. Ginger let her talk, getting to know the pilot at second hand. The more he heard the more he felt convinced that Dai had had no reason not to save himself if it had been at all possible. He made a mental note to examine the reports more closely for evidence about the ejector seat.

They stopped outside her hotel. "Will you be alright?" asked Ginger concerned.

She smiled sadly. "Yes, I think so." She hesitated. "Thank you," she said softly. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there." Perhaps, she thought, coming to London had not been such a bad idea after all. From utter despair she had begun to think of the future.

"The Bold Sir Galahad," said Ginger with a self-deprecating smile. The words evoked memories of another occasion and he winced inwardly before thrusting it to the back of his mind. Rhoda reminded him so much of Jeanette, he would have to be on his guard, he thought.

"I am glad you were there to rescue this damsel in distress," she told him quietly. For the first time since Dai had been killed she began to feel as though life might have some meaning again. She felt a surge of gratitude for the young man who had turned up in the nick of time to save her.

Ginger handed her his card. "Give me a call at Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon. About two o'clock," he suggested. "That will give me time to read the reports again and ring up the AAIB – the Air Accident Investigation Bureau - if need be to get additional information."

She took the proffered slip of pasteboard and thanked him.

Ginger tipped his hat and turned to go.

"Constable Hebblethwaite," she called after him.

Ginger stopped and faced her.

"Do you think there was anything suspicious about the crash?" she asked tentatively. "Foul play, I mean."

Ginger shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted, "but I do know that, from what you've told me about him, I think it was highly unlikely that Dai wouldn't have tried to save himself if he possibly could." Especially if he knew you would be waiting for him, he acknowledged silently.

Her eyes moistened with tears again. "Thank you," she breathed. "It isn't much, but it does give me a sort of comfort."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he promised. "Good night."

He waited a moment as Rhoda entered the lobby and saw her take her key from reception before entering the lift. Happy that she would come to no harm, he turned and resumed his interrupted journey home.

As he walked back to Piccadilly, Ginger ruminated on what she had told him. The visit the dead pilot had received shortly before the test was something worth investigating, he considered. He would ask Rhoda for more details when she telephoned.

Deep in thought, he hesitated before crossing the road. A dark limousine was approaching in the distance, but he calculated he had ample time to cross before it reached him. As he stepped off the pavement, however, the machine accelerated and headed straight for him. Ginger leapt back with alacrity and the wing brushed against his coat, almost knocking him off balance. The car sped past, allowing him to catch no more than a glimpse of the driver and a shadowy figure in the rear seat. To his chagrin, he knew that he would not be able to identify them if he saw them again. The rear number plate was not illuminated, he noted as the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared from sight. The street lights had not lit the number sufficiently for him to discern it, either, so he concluded that it had perhaps been obscured in some way.

Shaken, he wondered if his close shave was mere coincidence or if it was an attempted hit-and-run directly connected to his conversation with Rhoda. If the latter, it was an indication that there was something to investigate after all, he realised.

More vigilant now, he continued on his way, but there were no further incidents. He let himself into the empty flat and headed for the kitchen. Mrs Symes had been given a week off to visit her sister, so he was completely alone. It seemed strange not to have company, he thought as he made himself a cup of tea and took it into the sitting room to think over the events of the evening. Meeting Rhoda had temporarily ousted Algy from his thoughts, but the unaccustomed stillness brought the mystery of Algy's disappearance to the forefront of his mind once more. He wondered if Biggles and Bertie had reached their destination and what they had found. Worried as he was about Algy's safety, he had to console himself with the thought that fretting would not help. He had been left behind in London and would have to wait for news.

He must have dozed because he woke with a start to find himself still sitting in the armchair Biggles usually chose next to the fire, which had burned itself out. He yawned and stretched then rubbed his hand over his eyes.

The silence of the flat was oppressive and he felt lonely for the first time in many years. Shaking himself mentally, he headed for bed. He stretched out, but sleep eluded him. When it finally came, it offered him little relief. He dreamed of Jeanette so vividly that when he awoke the pain of her loss was almost physical.

He flung the covers back and washed hastily, trying to banish the memories that meeting Rhoda had resurrected. As he dressed, he decided he would breakfast at a café rather than prepare his own; he wanted to waste no time getting out and applying his mind to other, less uncomfortable, matters.

When he had closed the door behind him and descended to the street, he thought back to the incident of the near miss the previous evening. It occurred to him that if indeed it had been linked to his meeting Rhoda, might that mean she was in danger? He resolved to call at her hotel on his way to Scotland Yard to make sure she had come to no harm. In fact, he told himself, he would check on her before he breakfasted. If she were in danger, then time could be of the essence.

With that in mind, he hailed a cruising cab. He was pleased that he had managed to pick up some transport so quickly. It was only when he had given the address in Bedford Square and the taxi swung onto Park Lane heading in the wrong direction that alarm bells began ringing. He tapped on the partition but the driver ignored him. Cursing himself for not paying more attention before he got in, Ginger tried to open the door, only to find it was locked. He tried to wind down the window, intending to attack the mechanism from the outside, but the handle had been disabled. He redoubled his efforts to escape when he heard a faint hissing. Gas! The sickly sweet smell of anaesthetic reminded him of being in the operating theatre before his tonsils were removed. He had been careless, but whoever had planned his kidnap had been thorough, he grudgingly admitted as he felt his senses slipping away.

How long he was unconscious he had no idea, but when he finally awoke it was dark. He was lying on a hard surface. When he tried to explore, he discovered his wrists and ankles were bound. Fighting nausea, he struggled to sit up. As he did so, someone groaned. He realised belatedly that it was his own voice.

"Who's there?" The questioner was female and sounded frightened. She seemed familiar, but he could not place her. Ginger tried to think, but his head felt stuffed with cotton wool.

"Who are you?" she asked again.

Her Welsh accent triggered recognition. "Rhoda?" he asked in surprise.

She caught her breath as she recognised his voice.

"Constable Hebblethwaite?"

"You'd better call me Ginger," he told her wryly. "We're likely to be here a while."

"I thought they'd delivered a sack of coal," she told him unflatteringly. "I didn't realise it was a person."

"How did you get here?" he wanted to know.

"I'd just come out of the hotel dining room after breakfast," she answered, "when the receptionist said there was a man wanting to see me. I thought it might have been you either wanting to ask me something else or telling me what you'd found out. When I went into the lobby it was a stranger. He said he wanted me to come with him. Of course, I refused, but then he showed me he had a gun, so I had to. He told me he wouldn't hesitate to use it if I caused trouble." Her voice wavered then strengthened. "He took me out to a car and put me in the back seat. I don't know where we went, but we seemed to go round and round. The windows were blacked out so I couldn't see much outside and I don't recognise the streets anyway. It took about half an hour, I suppose. Then we drew up at this house and they tied me up and put me in the cellar. I've been here ever since. What about you?"

Ginger sighed. "I got caught napping," he admitted frankly when he had described what had happened. "After last night, I ought to have been more alert."

"Last night?" prompted Rhoda.

He explained about the hit-and-run near miss on his way home. "What I don't understand," he confessed, "is what they hope to gain. I haven't had chance to find out anything. All they've done is confirm my suspicions that there's something fishy about the crash. There's madness in their method. If they had left well alone, I might easily have concluded it was just one of those unfortunate accidents that happen to aircraft under test."

"You really think Dai was murdered?"

"It's beginning to look like it, or else why are we here? If there was nothing in it, they'd surely have left us alone." He heard Rhoda sob. "I'm sorry," he said contritely. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Rhoda sniffed and tried to pull herself together. "I suppose in a strange sort of way, it makes me feel better," she said. "I mean, it's awful to think of somebody deliberately causing the crash, but at least Dai wasn't to blame."

Ginger tested his bonds, but they did not give. "Did you say you were tied up?" he asked.

"Yes," she told him. "They bound my hands behind my back before they put me in here and my ankles are tied together."

"If you can get over to me, back to back, I'll see if I can untie your hands," he suggested.

He heard Rhoda shuffling across the space that separated them. After what seemed an age, he felt her touch him.

"Good," he grunted as their hands met. "Let's see how good their knots are." With difficulty he managed to reach the ropes that tied her wrists. Whoever had bound them had done a good job, he acknowledged, but he felt confident that, given enough time, he would be able to unravel the bindings.

Steadily he worked away despite his protesting muscles and numbing fingers. From time to time he asked Rhoda to pull on the ropes or put her hands together to reduce the strain, but otherwise he was silent.

"Got it!" he exclaimed eventually. "Pull your hands apart now."

Rhoda did as she was bid. "Oh thank you!" she exclaimed as the bonds parted. She massaged her wrists gratefully.

"You shouldn't have any trouble setting me free now," said Ginger, "then we can untie our ankles."

Rhoda made short work of undoing the knots and soon he was restoring the circulation to his hands. When they were completely free, he helped her to her feet.

"What can you tell me about the house and cellar?" he wanted to know.

"Not much, I'm afraid," was the unhelpful response. "The house is detached, in a suburban street. There was a longish drive with a shrubbery. The cellar was dark when they put me in. They never put the light on."

"I wonder if they intend to leave us here to starve to death or whether we'll have visitors," he mused. "If they send someone to feed us, we'll have to try to overpower them. Anyway, we'll need a plan."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a cigarette lighter. The flame, when it flickered into life, did not penetrate far into the darkness, but enough to show that they were in a windowless cellar. A few pieces of broken abandoned furniture lay around and in one corner was a pile of coal. Ginger investigated but it was too low to enable him to climb up to the trap door which most probably was at ground level.

He made a circuit of their prison and found some steps that led to a door at the top.

"Wait here," he cautioned Rhoda, "while I go and see if there's any chance of breaking out."

Cautiously he climbed the steps and hesitated at the door, listening intently. He could hear no signs of activity. He put his hand on the door handle and allowed the light to go out. Carefully, he turned the handle, expecting it to resist. To his surprise, it turned easily. Their captors must have reckoned tying the prisoners up was sufficient.

Gently, he inched the door open a crack. Through the gap he could see part of a hallway. The floor was tiled and diagonally ahead was a white painted panelled door. The sounds of a faint conversation came to his ears, but whether it was the kidnappers or a radio he could not be certain.

Ginger quietly called Rhoda to join him. He heard her climb the stairs and held his breath, but no one entered the hall.

Emboldened by the lack of response, he opened the door. With a wider field of vision he could see that to his right there was a green baize door, obviously leading to the servants' quarters. It was from this direction that the murmur of voices came.

He took Rhoda's hand and drew her after him into the hallway. The cellar entrance had emerged below a sweeping staircase. Ahead of them was another white painted door, closed like the others.

"Come on," he urged in a whisper. "Let's see if we can get out while there's nobody about."

Rhoda needed no second telling and followed close behind him. The hall turned to the left beyond the stairs and as they turned the corner, they could see the front door. Another door led off to a room on the left. Ginger realised that the windows almost certainly overlooked the entrance, but that was a risk they would have to take. Briskly, but without making any more noise than absolutely necessary, he strode towards the door and grasped the handle. Would this be locked as well? Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Ginger turned the knob and pulled the door open.

Swiftly, they passed through and Ginger shut the door behind him. As he expected, there were windows either side of the portico. He told Rhoda to stay under the porch against the front wall, out of sight of any occupants of the rooms on the ground or first floor, while he investigated.

Crouching low, he made his way to the window in front of which they had to pass to escape down the drive. Cautiously he raised his head above the sill and took in the empty interior.

"Come on," he hissed, seizing Rhoda's hand once more and drawing her after him down the drive. "Be ready to dive into the shrubbery if anyone comes," he warned her, but the admonition proved unnecessary. They reached the gates and debouched onto the pavement without any sounds of pursuit.

"Where are we?" asked Rhoda.

"I've no idea," admitted Ginger frankly. "We'll just have to head down the street and hope that I recognise something to give us a clue. Maybe the street sign will have the district on it." He offered his arm to Rhoda. "We'll look less conspicuous if we appear to be a couple out for a stroll," he suggested.

She slipped her arm through his and they walked on together, fearful of pursuit, but not daring to quicken their pace for fear of attracting attention. At the end of the street, Ginger turned left. There were no road signs, only the fixings that showed where one once had been.

"I hope you're remembering the route," smiled Ginger when they turned right at another T junction where the sign gave only the name of the road and the street it lead to.

Rhoda looked horrified. "I'm hopeless," she admitted. "I'm already lost. I'd never find my way here again."

"Let's hope you don't have to," said Ginger grimly. "If I can pinpoint the position of the house, I'll ask Inspector Gaskin – he's a regular policeman for whom we've done one or two favours when there was an air angle," he explained, "to send some of his lads round to see what they can find."

At the end of the next road he found what he was looking for. A white metal plaque with not just the name of the road in bold embossed letters painted black, but also the district number picked out in red. On the opposite corner was a familiar red telephone box.

"I'll call Gaskin now and set things in motion," said Ginger. "When they discover we've gone, they may scarper before we can do anything about it."

"Or they may come looking for us," said Rhoda nervously, looking back the way they had come.

"Come into the phone box with me while I make the call just in case," suggested Ginger. "You'll be less conspicuous that way."

She squeezed in beside him as he dialled the number. It was far from unpleasant being confined in a tight space with him, she thought, although he did his best to keep his distance. She listened to his half of the conversation as he spoke to the Inspector, giving a brief report of what had happened, their escape and the details of the streets they had traversed from their current starting point. "You've got it?" asked Ginger at last. "A large Edwardian house in its own grounds." He paused. "Yes, that's right." Another pause. "Good," he concluded. "We'll make our way back to the Yard. Where is the nearest Tube station from here?" He listened again, nodding as he took in the instructions. "Roger," he acknowledged and ended the conversation.

"The Underground station is only a couple of streets away," he told Rhoda. "Let's get cracking. I'm starving. I haven't had any breakfast yet and it must be gone lunch time. I never did like getting kidnapped on an empty stomach," he joked light-heartedly.

Rhoda looked at him and shook her head. "You seem to take this as all in a day's work," she marvelled.

"I suppose it is, in a way," he acknowledged. "I've been in quite a few tight corners in my time." As they walked to the Underground, he recounted a few of his adventures. "I'm not usually on my own, though," he acknowledged. "It makes a lot of difference when you've got comrades to back you up."

The return journey passed without incident. When the pair arrived back at Scotland Yard. Inspector Gaskin had not returned, so Ginger took Rhoda to the canteen as his guest while he assuaged his hunger.

"That's better," he sighed as he pushed his plate away. "My stomach was beginning to think my throat had been cut!"

Rhoda shuddered.

"It's only a figure of speech," he hastened to reassure her.

"I know; it just made me think what might have happened to us," she told him, fearfully. "They could have done anything."

"But they didn't," he reminded her. "Nothing happened. There is no point in worrying about what might have been."

Rhoda took a deep breath. "Yes," she said in a determined voice. "You're right. What's done is done and we can't change the past. We have to get on with our lives and not worry about what might have happened." Surreptitiously she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Ginger nodded sympathetically, but said nothing. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Jeanette and what he might have had; a wife, a home, a family. Ruthlessly, he put them out of his mind and stood up.

"If you've finished your meal, we'll go back up and see if Gaskin's back," he proposed.

When they arrived back in the Air Police office, the burly, pipe-smoking inspector was waiting for them.

"Any luck?" asked Ginger.

Gaskin shook his head. "When we got there, the cupboard was bare," he growled. "They must have done a runner as soon as they discovered you'd gone."

"Any leads?"

"None at all. The house was rented. The bloke who arranged it with the estate agent was nondescript, middle aged, just ordinary, according the clerk. We checked the name and address he gave, but they were false. He paid with cash. We've sent the fingerprint boys in, but it's not looking hopeful; the place is clean. Looks like it's a dead end," concluded the inspector.

"Apart from the crash reports, which I'll have another look at," mused Ginger, "the only other thing we could try is the rogues' gallery." He looked at Rhoda. "Would you mind looking at some photographs to see if there's anybody you recognise?" he enquired. "The man who visited Dai before the crash, perhaps. Or the chap who abducted you. It's a long shot, but you never know."

When Rhoda agreed Ginger laid the books in front of her. He watched as she turned the pages slowly. He was beginning to think that this, too, would lead nowhere, when suddenly she exclaimed, "Oh look! There's Dickie!"

Gaskin and Ginger leaned over to see as she pointed to a photograph of a young man with dark, slicked back hair. "He's a mechanic at the works," explained Rhoda. "I've seen him lots of times with Dai. His name's James Dickinson, but they all call him Dickie."

"They may call him Dickie," said Gaskin grimly, "but his name isn't Dickinson; it's Richard. That's Richard "Dickie" James. Ex-RAF mechanic and bent enough to make a corkscrew look straight. He's got a record as long as my arm. No wonder he changed his name. Nobody would touch him with a bargepole if they knew his real history. If he's involved, there's bound to be something dodgy going on. He never could keep his nose clean."

Rhoda looked shocked. "He was always so pleasant," she protested. "Cheerful, helpful, laughing and joking …"

"… light-fingered and a con artist," concluded Gaskin sombrely. "Don't judge a book by its cover. He'd skin his mother if he thought he could turn a profit by it."

Rhoda looked at Ginger, appalled. "I'm afraid it's true," he admitted ruefully. "Some of the most ruthless criminals I've come into contact with looked as though they wouldn't hurt a fly. You can't rely on them all to be nasty and brutish looking, unfortunately."

Rhoda absorbed this information in silence, thinking that the pair of them were deeply cynical.

"Carry on looking," urged Ginger. "We've got one lead to follow up, but I doubt he's working alone. He's probably in league with the chap who visited Dai. Perhaps if his accomplice also has a record, you'll spot his mug-shot in here. Then there's the chap who met you in the hotel. Maybe he's in there, too."

Rhoda did as she was bid. For a while there was silence, broken only by the sounds of Gaskin puffing on his pipe and the turning of pages.

"I know this one," exclaimed Rhoda suddenly, pointing at one of the images. "He's the man who came to talk to Dai."

"Excellent!" declared Gaskin as he noted the details. "Ronnie Hathaway is a strong arm man. Robbery with violence, that sort of thing. He and Dickie go back a way. They both served time together."

"Maybe Dickie sent for his old pal when he needed someone to apply a bit of pressure," suggested Ginger.

"Sounds likely," acknowledged Gaskin. "Ronnie wouldn't have the brains to organise anything. His forte is using his muscle. See if you can spot the bloke who took you from the hotel," he encouraged Rhoda.

Rhoda turned the pages, her brow furrowed in concentration. As she was nearing the end of the volume, a constable came in and laid a file on the desk in front of Gaskin.

"Fingerprints," grunted Gaskin in answer to Ginger's enquiring look, as he investigated the contents.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for," sighed Ginger. "They seem to have been pretty thorough."

"Not thorough enough, it seems," commented Gaskin. "The place was clean, but we managed to find several fingerprints on the ropes in the cellar that must have been used to bind the pair of you. Presumably some of them are yours and Rhoda's – we'll need to take your prints to eliminate them – but there is a clear set of other prints as well. They are running a match now."

The constable laid out his kit, inked Rhoda's and Ginger's fingers and pressed them onto a sheet. When the prints were dry, he took the inky documents away for comparison with the set that had been discovered in the cellar.

"I'm sure that's the man who was at the hotel!" exclaimed Rhoda suddenly, pointing to one of the photographs. "He didn't have a moustache, but I'm certain it's the same man."

"Phillip Hugh Waterton," murmured Gaskin. "That's another link with Dickie; he's an ex-RAF type. They were on the same squadron."

The constable had not yet returned with the results of the fingerprint matching. While they were waiting, Ginger took the opportunity of re-reading the crash investigator's report.

The pilot had requested permission from ATC to climb to flight level 250 to begin his tests but was cleared only to FL 240. He was also instructed to remain inside radar coverage and clear of controlled airspace. The pilot had reported normally until shortly before the crash, but the last radio transmission, immediately before the aircraft disappeared from the radar scope, had been hard to decipher.

There had been several witnesses to the crash; a party of ramblers had been hiking across the moor at the time and had seen the whole thing from a nearby ridge. Their evidence was backed up by the radar information available. The aeroplane had gone through a sequence of manoeuvres before flipping over on its back and spiralling down to earth.

The initial examination of the wreckage at the site and its distribution indicated that the structural integrity of the airframe had been compromised in the area of the wing-root, causing the machine to lose stability and enter an uncontrollable spin. There was no evidence of fire or foreign objects within the flying control systems, which seemed to eliminate sabotage. There was, however, a note of an unusual discoloration at the fracture site on the wing. Traces of an aluminium compound residue had been found in the break.

Examination of damage to and deformation of the turbine blades of the engines indicated that they had been running at a reasonably high power level when the crash occurred.

The pilot's ejector seat had all its safety pins installed. No attempt had been made to operate the escape system.

The conclusion was that the airframe had failed, leading to loss of control. There was no explanation for the pilot's failure to eject when catastrophe was inevitable. There had, the report concluded, been sufficient altitude for a safe ejection to take place.

Ginger closed the file quietly. He would need to chase up the lab report on the compound found on the wing, he decided, and the post mortem examination of the pilot might hold some clues as to why Dai did not eject. As there was no transcript of the final radio transmission, a chat with the duty controller about Dai's last words might help shed light on the crash. In any event, thought Ginger, it would be instructive to visit the crash site.

He reached for the telephone and put through a couple of calls, one to the AAIB to confirm that the wreckage had not yet been removed and the second to arrange an interview with the controller who had been talking to Dai when he crashed. By a lucky coincidence, the ATC operative who had been on duty answered the call. Unwilling to ask the questions he wanted answered with Rhoda listening, Ginger arranged to meet him at a nearby flying club after he finished his shift. He intended to fly up in the Auster. That would enable him to kill two birds with one stone as it was not far from the scene of the crash.

"Do you have a contact in Yorkshire I could liase with?" Ginger asked Gaskin. "I'll need some transport at the other end and some backup might come in handy."

Gaskin nodded. "Fred Smirke, the lads called him Charlie." When Ginger looked blank, he explained, "after the jockey. Used to be a Met sergeant," continued Gaskin, "but got promotion and moved up north. He's a good lad, knows the time of day." He reached for the telephone. "I'll let him know you're coming."

Gaskin had just put down the handset and declared that it was all arranged when a constable came back and announced that fingerprints had found a match. "The prints belong to Phillip Hugh Waterton," he stated. "He was released from an open prison in the Midlands about six months ago. Since then he has been clean – or at least, he hasn't been caught doing anything he shouldn't."

Gaskin reached for the telephone again and asked to be put through to the probation office. After a short conversation he put the phone down and sighed. "Waterton left his lodgings about a fortnight ago and left a false address. He could be anywhere now."

"We know where he was a few hours ago," said Ginger wryly.

"That's no help," growled Gaskin.

"I wonder if Waterton was a pilot," mused Ginger. "It's worth looking up the civil licence list, although he may only have had a military ticket." He opened the filing cabinet and rifled through the documents. "Nothing there," he announced after checking the names.

He looked at his watch. "I'll have to get cracking," he said, "or I'll run out of daylight. I want to check on the crash site after I've spoken to the ATC chap. I'll have to go through the military records when I get back."

Rhoda stood up. "You couldn't take me with you, could you?" she asked hesitantly. "I'd like to see …" she took a deep breath and composed herself, "… where it happened."

It was Ginger's turn to hesitate. He wanted to spare Rhoda's feelings, but he understood her need to confront her loss.

"Alright," he said eventually. "I don't suppose it will do any harm."

"Thank you," she breathed softly, touching him on the arm, "for being so understanding."

Ginger smiled wryly. "Perhaps I understand better than you realise," he murmured.

Gaskin watched the exchange in silence and shook his head sadly.

Ginger rang through to warn Flight Sergeant Smyth to prepare the Auster. The machine was waiting for them when they arrived at the airport, warmed up and ready for use. If Smyth thought it odd that Ginger was bringing a female passenger as introductions were briefly made, he kept his opinions to himself.

"Here," offered Ginger before he did the pre-flight checks, "you can borrow my flying jacket. It will be cold at altitude."

Rhoda took the heavy leather garment and put it on. "What will you wear?" she wanted to know.

"I'll borrow one belonging to a colleague," asserted Ginger. "He won't mind." He took Bertie's sheepskin from its peg, wondering how he and Biggles were getting on in their search for Algy. He put it out of his mind; he had other things to concern him now.

Ginger helped Rhoda into the machine and made sure her safety belt was securely buckled. With Smyth in attendance, he made a visual check of the aircraft, testing the controls. He had already filed his flight plan.

"Is this the first time you've flown?" asked Ginger as he received clearance and taxied out to take off.

"In a small plane, yes," acknowledged Rhoda. "I did once go on an airliner to France."

"You'll find this a bit different, then," smiled Ginger. "It might feel a bit bumpy, but don't worry."

"I won't," she assured him, watching as he deftly handled the controls. The surge of power as they moved forward pushed her back into her seat and soon the rumble of the wheels died away. She was surprised that they were airborne so quickly and looked fascinated out of the cabin as Ginger climbed away and took up course. The view was much better than through the tiny window of the airliner, she realised. The ground was spread out below and then they climbed through wisps of cloud. She began to understand why Dai had been so keen on his job. She felt a lump come into her throat. Dai seemed so close and the misery of what she had lost seemed to hit her all at once. The Auster dipped momentarily and then resumed climbing.

"Are you alright?" asked Ginger, seeing that Rhoda had her hand to her mouth.

"Yes," she mumbled, biting her knuckle to stop herself crying. "I was just thinking."

Ginger fell silent, leaving her with her thoughts. Aeroplanes appear to travel slowly when seen from the ground, but their speed is deceptive. The flight was soon over; all too quickly for Rhoda when she realised that they were manoeuvring and their journey's end was approaching.

"I'm just going on finals into the flying club field," Ginger informed her. "We'll soon be down."

Below them, Rhoda could see some toy aeroplanes lined up by hangars. As they descended, the scene below grew in scale until the wheels were kissing the grass and everything was life-size once more.

Ginger taxied across to the hangars where a mechanic helped him to park and secure the aircraft. A uniformed constable approached him as he helped Rhoda to alight.

"Constable Hebblethwaite?" enquired the policeman. When Ginger confirmed his identity, the man continued, "Inspector Smirke has sent me with a car for you. I'll be available as a driver if you need me."

"I'd rather drive myself, thanks," Ginger told him. "I don't know how long I'm going to be, nor quite where I'll end up at this stage."

"Right-oh," replied the constable with a grin and a glance at Rhoda. "I shan't be sorry to be able to get home on time." He touched his helmet and turned away.

"Can I give you a lift?" asked Ginger.

The policeman pointed to an ancient bicycle leaning against the hangar. "I put my own transport in the back, just in case." He swung his leg over the crossbar and wobbled away.

"Trouble?" enquired a smartly dressed man who had arrived at the hangars in time to see the constable depart.

Ginger shook his head and looked enquiringly at the newcomer.

"Peter Thornton," the man introduced himself. "I'm secretary of the flying club for my sins."

Ginger showed him his police ID and explained the reason for his visit.

"I'll put my office at your disposal," offered Thornton.

"Thanks," acknowledged Ginger. I'd appreciate it if you'd look after Miss Williams while I'm busy," he added.

"It'll be a pleasure," replied the secretary with a smile as he showed the way to his office. "I'll send the ATC chappie to you when he arrives," he confirmed.

As Rhoda was led away to the club bar, Ginger settled himself behind the desk; he did not have long to wait. A light tap on the door preceded the entry of a young man with blond hair who introduced himself as Ed Barnes the controller.

The interview was short, as there was little that could be added to the official report, but Ginger pressed him on the content of Dai's last message.

"It really was very difficult to make out what he was saying," asserted Barnes. "It was almost as though he was drunk – it was garbled and incoherent." He looked embarrassed. "I don't want to speak ill of the dead," he muttered, "but I did wonder if he'd been on the sauce. I couldn't make head nor tail of it."

Ginger thanked him for coming and stood up. They shook hands and parted outside the door to the bar. Deep in thought, Ginger wandered in, to find Rhoda surrounded by those members of the flying club who had finished flying for the day.

"Any luck?" enquired Thornton.

Ginger shook his head. "Tell me, Rhoda," he asked tentatively, "did Dai ever drink before he flew?"

Rhoda vehemently denied it. "He was tee-total!" she exclaimed. "He didn't even have a drink at Christmas. Whatever made you say that?"

"Just trying to eliminate all the possibilities," murmured Ginger.

"Anybody who claims he was drunk didn't know Dai!" asserted Rhoda positively. "He never touched alcohol."

"I'm sorry if it upset you, but I needed to know."

"I know, I just feel –" she broke off.

"Do you still want to come with me to the crash site?"

Rhoda swallowed and nodded. "I just feel so angry that Dai's dead and everybody is trying to blame him when he can't speak up for himself."

"Pilot error," sighed Ginger. "Sometimes it can be very convenient." He looked at Thornton. "Could I make one more call before I go?"

On receiving an answer in the affirmative, Ginger shut himself in the secretary's office to make an enquiry about the post mortem. There had been no evidence of drink or drugs, which was what he had expected. When he asked about signs of anoxia, however, he got a positive response. There had been slight cyanosis, the report concluded, but not enough to cause death.

'But enough to cause the pilot to lose competence in decision making,' thought Ginger as he thanked his contact for the information. He put the handset back on its rest and left thoughtfully.

"I don't think Dai was to blame," Ginger told Rhoda as they drove away from the airfield, having thanked Thornton for his help. "I want to look at the crash to check I'm right."

Rhoda squeezed his arm gratefully and thanked him. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but she managed to hold them back. "I'm so grateful for what you're doing," she told him. "If it weren't for you, I'd be dead now."

"Too many people have died," replied Ginger sombrely. "It's my job to see no more do."

They drove in silence until Ginger turned off the lane at the place marked on his map. He parked the car inconspicuously in a clearing near the road. There was no point in advertising his presence, he thought.

The area was desolate. A sharp wind soughed through the trees, adding to the mournful atmosphere. Rhoda stopped when she saw the wreckage.

"If you don't want to go any closer, I understand," murmured Ginger.

She shook her head. "I wanted to come," she averred. "Nobody twisted my arm."

She straightened her back and walked determinedly up to the fuselage. A man in overalls came from behind the heap of twisted metal and challenged her. Rhoda jumped and uttered a little cry.

Ginger, following close behind her, stepped in to show the man, who it turned out had been left on guard by the AAIB to deter souvenir hunters, his police credentials, explaining the purpose of his visit and requesting that they be granted half an hour or so examining the crash.

"Just time to nip down the pub for a nice hot pie," chortled the guard, rubbing his hands. "It'll make a nice change from sandwiches and a stewed flask of tea." He departed with alacrity, before Ginger could change his mind. Given the melancholy desolation of the spot and the fact a man had recently died there, Ginger had to admit that he could hardly blame the chap for his lack of enthusiasm for his task.

Rhoda put her hand on the fuselage. Ginger warned her to be careful. "It would be easy to hurt yourself on jagged edges," he cautioned, "and you don't want to end up a casualty."

He looked inside the cockpit to find the oxygen supply. The connector was on the floor behind the pilot's seat. It was not easy to get at, he realised and if the bayonet fitting had not been fully home, Dai could have been badly affected without ever becoming aware of the problem. Before he checked the coupling, he looked at the tell-tale indicator of oxygen flow and removed the bulb from its housing. The filament was blown. Had it been broken during the crash, he wondered, or had it been faulty, giving no indication that the vital gas was not getting through.

He leaned over to grasp the pipe leading to the supply line. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his hand. A thin, pale brown snake with darker brown zigzag markings slithered away into the recesses. Ginger felt dizzy and sick. His hand was already becoming swollen where two puncture marks were clearly visible and he was finding it harder to breathe. As a feeling of extreme lassitude washed over him, he realised he had just been bitten by one of Britain's only venomous snakes, an adder.

"What's the matter?" asked Rhoda anxiously.

"Snakebite," gasped Ginger.

Rhoda looked horrified.

"Help me put my arm in a sling," urged Ginger. "I need to keep it immobilised."

Rhoda helped him make a sling out of his shirt to keep his hand against his shoulder. "You should be in hospital," she told him, aghast.

"Just as soon as I've completed what I came to do," he promised. Taking extreme care not to disturb any more serpents, he gave the oxygen hose a tug with his good hand. The bayonet fitting parted with only a token resistance. With a grunt of satisfaction, Ginger leaned against the side of the wrecked machine. "Time to be getting back," he concluded. "I've found what I wanted."

They were just about to make their way back to the car when the sound of voices was carried to them on the darkening air. "Shh!" warned Ginger. "Let's get out of sight."

He stumbled as he put the wreckage between themselves and the newcomers. Rhoda steadied him. He leaned gratefully against the cold metal as they watched three men tramp across the open space.

"That's a stroke of luck!" exclaimed the shortest. "There was a guard here yesterday."

"Keep a sharp lookout, Ronnie," ordered the tallest member of the trio in well modulated tones. "He may only have gone off for a short break."

The man so addressed moved slightly away from the others. He was a thickset individual with a bull neck and close cropped hair. Ginger recognised him from the photograph in the rogues' gallery. Ronnie Hathaway. Unless fate had played a strange game of coincidences, he realised, the pair who were closing on the wreckage were Phillip Hugh Waterton and Dickie James. Ginger put his hand in his pocket and felt the reassuring butt of his pistol. He was in no state to start a rough house. He gathered his remaining strength to act. If he did not arrest them soon, it would be too late. He put his mouth to Rhoda's ear and whispered. "Stay here."

Unsteadily he stepped round the fuselage, holding the pistol at the ready. "That's far enough!" he said crisply. He had meant it to sound authoritative, but it came out not much louder than a whisper. In the still air it nonetheless had the effect of a whiplash.

Waterton stopped and his hand went to his pocket.

"Don't try anything, Waterton," advised Ginger. "I'm a police officer."

A wave of dizziness swept over him and he was forced to place the hand holding the pistol against the wreck to steady himself. Waterton saw his chance and drew a gun from his pocket. What happened next was forever afterward just a blur to Ginger. Rhoda ran out from behind the machine to help him, Waterton fired and Ginger was momentarily pinned against the crashed aeroplane as Rhoda collapsed against him. He managed to free his hand and fired a snap shot at Waterton. He had intended only to disable, but the combined effects of adder venom and the unwieldy burden of Rhoda slumped against him caused his aim to be false. Waterton flung up his arms and fell to the ground. From the manner of his fall, Ginger knew he was dead. Dickie immediately flung up his hands crying, "don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

"Don't try making a break for it, Hathaway!" ordered Ginger as the third member of the gang hesitated. "Kneel down with your hands under your legs."

When the surviving crooks had been put in a position from which they would find it very difficult to make any sudden moves, Ginger turned his attention to Rhoda. The bullet had hit her in the back and Ginger realised immediately that the wound was too serious for there to be any hope. She opened her eyes and looked at him, but he felt sure that she was not seeing him. She smiled and sighed Dai's name as the life faded from her. Fighting rage and grief, Ginger laid her gently on the ground and closed her eyes. At least, he thought bitterly, she and Dai were reunited now.

He pushed himself upright and staggered across to the motionless Waterton. As he had suspected, the man was dead. Ginger looked at the corpse dispassionately then motioned to the two crooks to stand up. He herded them to the spot where he had left the police car and used the radio to call for reinforcements and an ambulance.

When the squad cars arrived, Ginger handed his prisoners over with relief. A police surgeon who had accompanied the ambulance treated his wound, took his pulse and ordered him to hospital for observation.

Inspector Smirke visited him before he was discharged to tidy up the loose ends. Dickie James had sung like the proverbial canary, as he colourfully put it. It had all been Waterton's idea, claimed James. A spot of industrial espionage. Waterton had intended to steal the prototype's new secret power plant, but by a stroke of bad luck Dai had discovered Dickie's true identity and had threatened to tell his bosses. Waterton had sent Hathaway to warn Dai that if he did not keep quiet some very nasty things would happen to his fiancé. Before they could put their plans into operation, however, the prototype had crashed. Dickie was adamant that they had nothing to do with that, said the Inspector.

"I know," responded Ginger. "That was sheer bad luck. It was a combination of circumstances. The oxygen tube was not fully home in the connecting link so Dai was not getting his full ration. He was too high to be able to manage without, so it began to affect his judgement. In effect, it was making him drunk, so he failed to spot the problem. It wasn't helped by the tell-tale which is designed to let you know if oxygen is flowing freely. A bulb should light up if the supply isn't getting through, but I'm fairly sure that it wasn't working. What with no visual warning and the affects of lack of oxygen, Dai was losing control of the aircraft."

Ginger rubbed his swollen hand tenderly as he concluded, "what happened next was the final straw. Corrosion had weakened the wing root, so when Dai tried to go through his routine, but failed to fly the manoeuvres as he should have, the extra stresses caused the wing to fail. If it hadn't been for that, the chances are that Dai would have recovered sufficiently once the aircraft had descended into thicker air. As it was, he was unable to respond properly to the emergency. No wonder he never had chance to bail out. Waterton tried to be too clever for his own good. He probably knew of Biggles through the RAF and I bet he'd heard of his reputation as head of the Air Police in prison, so when he saw me with Rhoda – he must have been following her – he thought I was on to him. If he hadn't tried to kidnap me to get me out of the way, it's unlikely we would have been able to pin anything on him."

"I suppose they thought they'd try and salvage something from the wreckage," observed Inspector Smirke.

"Quite literally," agreed Ginger. "If they could get to the crash unobserved, they could have removed the power plant and, although it was damaged, they would have been able to find out enough about the new developments to net them a nice fortune, selling to the highest bidder. That's what they were aiming to do when I put a spanner in the works. What will happen about Waterton?" he asked anxiously. "I didn't mean to kill him."

"Self defence," averred the Inspector. "He'd already shot and gravely wounded one person. You have no case to answer."

"That's a relief," sighed Ginger. "I don't think my boss would be too pleased to find I'd managed to get myself arrested for murder while he was away!"

As soon as he was fit to fly, Ginger returned to Scotland Yard to hear the best news he could possibly have wished for. Algy had been found, a little the worse for wear after his crash, but still alive. Ginger was looking forward to welcoming him home, but first he had one more duty to perform.

The skies were leaden as he stood in the churchyard in Denbigh. The rain had ceased, leaving everything washed clean. Pools of water gathered between the graves. Ginger watched in sorrow as Rhoda's coffin was lowered into the grave adjoining the plot where Dai had earlier been laid to rest. The sonorous Welsh utterances meant nothing to him, but he knew they must be the time honoured phrases that accompanied interment, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. As the clods dropped on the polished wooden surface Jeanette's funeral replayed itself vividly in his mind. The pain of his loss was as sharp as ever, he realised; he had done his best to wipe it from his consciousness, but it was ever present just under the surface. From the moment he had first met her, Rhoda had reminded him so strongly of Jeanette, he thought. He had never anticipated that the parallels were destined to be so close. He turned on his heel and left for the long drive back to London consoling himself with the thought that Algy would be home soon. It would be the next best thing to a family reunion.


End file.
